


Captain Harkness and Private Jones

by UltimateGryffindork



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tumblr: torchwoodfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateGryffindork/pseuds/UltimateGryffindork
Summary: Private Ianto Jones is a new soldier in Captain Jack Harness' division, and together they are thrown into the war to end all wars.Written for TorchwoodFest Day 3: Alternate Universe





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for TorchwoodFest. I hope you enjoy!

“Good morning, gentlemen!”

Captain Jack Harkness strode into the barracks, head held high, surveying the new soldiers. “I am your Captain, and I am in charge of the 7th Glamorgan Division. This is Sergeant Harper; he will be overseeing your training. Now,” He paced slowly and authoritatively in front of the new recruits, all looking as if they suddenly regretted their decision to sign up as they saw the grim expressions on his and Sergeant Harper’s faces. “You are in the army now, fighting for your King and your country. There are standards, and there are rules, but it’s most important that you realise that these men standing in this room? They’re your brothers now. We are all united in this fight. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Came a chorus of nervous voices.

“Good,” he said, giving them all a cocky half-smile. “I will leave you in the capable hands of Sergeant Harper, and I hope I only hear good things.”

He turned to leave but stopped in his tracks when he heard two of the recruits sniggering.

“Is something funny?” He snapped, whipping around.

“Oh, no, sir,” they said, failing to contain their laughter.

“Names?”

“Jones,” said one, followed by the other one, “And, er, Jones.”

“That’s ‘Private Jones, Sir,” barked Jack. “Can I have a show of hands for everyone here called Private Jones?”

Over half of the soldiers put their hands up.

“Bloody Welsh,” Sergeant Harper muttered under his breath.

“What about Private Lloyd? Private Lloyds, raise your hands please?”

Another smattering of hands.

“And Private Evans?”

A further five.

“Make sure they know their ID numbers,” Jack murmured to Sergeant Harper before leaving.

As soon as he’d left the two Joneses started whispering and sniggering again, immediately drawing Sergeant Harper’s attention.

“Jones! Jones! Knock it off!”

One of them muttered something to the other, who laughed even harder.

“Excuse me!” Sergeant Harper exclaimed, clearing his throat. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of us?”

The man cleared his throat, before saying in complete sincerity, “Pric pwdin.”

“Oi!” the Sergeant yelled as a number of the other soldiers snorted, or in some cases began turning red with repressed laughter. “I won’t have any of your bloody Welsh in here, alright? English only. You!” He pointed to the young man to the left of the Joneses. “What’s your name?”

“Private Jones, Sir,” the man said assuredly.

Sighing, Sergeant Harper asked, “Full name?”

“Ianto, Sir. Private Ianto Jones.”

“Good. Private Jones? Swap places with Private Jones. NOW!”

* * *

 

_Six weeks later_

There was a tentative knock of Jack’s office door. “Captain?”

Well, ‘office’ might have been a bit generous. As was ‘door’. A hole dug into what used to be the serene French countryside, sealed only by a plank of wood propped up on sandbags, wouldn’t usually count as an office or a door, but it was the best Jack had – really, it was the best that anyone had.

“Come in!”

The door swung open as Private Jones walked in.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Yes, come on in,” Jack said, indicating that he should stand in the only free space in the small room. “Sergeant Harper reports that you’re one of the hardest workers in the division, and one of his best soldiers.”

Private Jones nodded curtly, still standing at attention. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Why don’t you sit down,” Jack said, not unkindly, indicating one of the stools under the rough wooden table.

Confused, Private Jones pulled out a stool and sat, Jack joining him.

“So your first name is Ianto?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“If it’s alright with you, I’ll call you Ianto. There’s too many Private Joneses around here.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Ianto, I wanted to ask you something. You see, now that we’re here, in France, I need… well, I suppose, an assistant. Someone who will fetch messages for me, make sure that my weapons and my battle dress are in order, generally make my job, and the job of my superiors, as easy and as simply as possible. Is that a role that you would be interested in?”

Ianto gulped. “I – Yes, Sir. Definitely.”

“Good,” smiled Jack. “Well, report here at half past six tomorrow morning.” He stood up and saluted, Ianto following his lead. “Private Jones.”

“Captain Harkness.”

* * *

 

_Eight months later_

“Ah, Ianto!” Jack said, opening the door at the now-familiar knock. “What have you got for me this time?”

“Messages from the Colonel, Sir,” said Ianto. “And, er, your tea.”

“Perfect; thank you, Ianto,” said Jack, taking the envelope and tea and taking a long swig.

Ianto stood to attention, glancing nervously around. “Will that be everything, Sir?”

“Yes, that should be - ” Jack started, before breaking off. “Actually, how about you stay here for a few minutes? It will be nice to talk about something other than war. And it will give you a few more minutes in the warm and dry. Well, warm-ish. And dry-ish, I suppose.”

Clearing his throat, standing awkwardly, Ianto said, “Actually, Sir, if it’s alright with you, I should really get going. There’s, er, lots to do here, you know?”

Jack raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “You’ve never been eager to leave before. And it’s quite alright if there really is something you’d rather be doing, but – well, I assumed you enjoyed our conversations as much as I did. I just appreciated having someone to talk to who was interested in me rather than in my military strategies. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have assumed that you felt the same.”

“No!” Ianto said quickly, colouring slightly. “No, I – I didn’t mean to – I, um. I enjoy it too. Talking, I mean. Not having to think about what’s going on outside for a few minutes. It’s just…” He trailed off, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “There are rumours, Sir. Rumours that would not reflect well on either of us.”

Face darkening, Jack said, “What sort of rumours?”

For a moment it looked as if Ianto was going to tell him, but instead he simply shook his head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be comfortable telling you that, Sir.”

There was a long period of silence before Jack waved him away. “Of course. I understand. Well, thank you, Private Jones. Go back to your duties.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

For weeks, their interaction was limited to the passing of paperwork, orders and ‘Yes, Sir’s. Jack couldn’t help but notice that while Ianto didn’t seem to relax around him anymore, he could often be caught giving him inquisitive glances out of the corner of his eye. It had taken him all of two seconds to work out what ‘rumours’ Ianto had been referring to, and he didn’t blame him for wanting to keep his distance. That didn’t mean that he had to like it, though; he’d be lying if he said that the only reason he’d asked Ianto to do the job in the first place was because of his recommendation from Sergeant Harper. He’d just assumed – optimistically – that Ianto was beginning to feel at least something towards him in return.

On one level, Jack wished he wasn’t so segregated from the rest of his division. He’d walk through the trenches and see the men writing letters and laughing over lewd jokes and talking about what their mams cooked them for dinner, and he couldn’t help but wish that he was among them. But then he’d hear screams, and see the brutal injuries that men came back into the trenches with, and hate himself for being so grateful. Compared to the others he was living in luxury; even having dryer socks made all the difference, having a door to close on the night air.

He'd soon learned that even the soundest of minds weren’t safe against the turmoil of warfare. Shellshock, they were calling it; men coming back from hospital almost completely mad, twitching at the slightest sound, screaming at nothing. More than one man had had to be sent home for a bullet through the foot; Jack pretended that he knew it was an accident. This was warfare like no one had seen or even dreamt of before, and it was slowly and brutally killing them all.

It was easy to forget that, unlike the other soldiers, Ianto saw what went on behind the scenes. He’d been there for many a strategy meeting, passed the telegrams with Jack’s orders over his desk. While everyone else went to sleep each night not knowing what the next day would hold, Ianto had to sleep with that terrible knowledge over hanging over his head. Ianto always knew what death sentence the next day would bring, and it haunted him; Jack could see it in his eyes.

There were weeks of nothing. Day after day of every soldier lining up at sunrise and sunset, nothing else happening. Jack’s life was busier; paperwork and strategies arriving on his makeshift desk every morning, plans being drawn up, future battles being evaluated. And still, Ianto wouldn’t talk to him. It was selfish to worry about such a thing, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it.

Until the night before they were due to fight once again, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Jack from where he was checking over the final battle plans by candlelight.

“Captain?”

He looked up as the door creaked open. It was Ianto.

“Come on in, Private Jones,” Jack said, trying not to let Ianto’s harrowed face worry him. Ianto strode into the room, ignoring the seat Jack offered, and began to pace back and forth in the limited space. Jack look at him, concerned. “Ianto, are you alright?”

“I was an idiot,” said Ianto. “I – I shouldn’t have let what they said get to me! I should have just ignored it all but I didn’t and now - ” He abruptly stopped pacing, staring straight at Jack with wide, sad eyes. “I missed you, Captain.”

“I’m pretty sure you can call me Jack now,” said Jack, indicating once again to the stools by the table in the centre of the room. “Come on, sit down. We can talk about it.”

Ianto nodded once, pulling up the stool nearest to him. “I’m sorry, Captain – I mean, Jack. I missed talking to you, spending time with you. I just…” he trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“Ianto,” said Jack carefully, suspecting that he knew what Ianto was about to say. “Ianto, you can say whatever you need to. It will stay within this room, that I promise. I won’t judge you and you won’t - ” As his eyes met Ianto’s, he knew he was right. “You won’t be punished.”

“Those rumours,” Ianto whispered, as if speaking the words aloud would somehow make them real. “The reason I let what they said affect me was because I…” He gulped, before mumbling, “I wanted them to be true. Or at least part of them.”

There was a long silence between them, neither one daring to even breathe. Slowly, Jack reached towards Ianto, taking his hand. “I feel the same way.”

Ianto’s face lit up in shock and amazement. “You – you do? But I thought, I thought that you - ”

“People are people, Ianto,” said Jack, smiling despite himself. “Men, women; at the end of the day we’re all just _people_. And just because someone else doesn’t understand that doesn’t mean that it’s wrong. We’re just… two people.” He stood up, leading Ianto up with him by their still-joined hands. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been hoping you would come here and tell me these things.”

Hand shaking, Ianto gently caressed Jack’s cheek, leaning in and keeping eye contact until the last moment when their lips connected. He felt himself shiver, but not from the cold, as Jack’s arms wrapped around his waist and Ianto’s other hand went to rest on Jack’s shoulder. For a single, glorious moment, they weren’t in France, in the middle of a war, surrounded by mud and rats and disease. They could have been anywhere, anywhere at all, locked in a moment they never thought they’d have.

Eventually, of course, they had to part, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing against each other. “Can I stay with you tonight?” Ianto asked breathlessly, the implication obvious.

“Tomorrow,” whispered Jack. “In a few hours, we begin battle. But tomorrow, at sundown, meet me here.”

“Okay,” said Ianto. “Tomorrow.”

Jack smiled. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Tomorrow, the world will end.

Hundreds of thousands of men will rise up out of the trenches, bayonets held in trembling hands, and will be slaughtered.

Their commanding officers will stay safe underground, sending orders from their bunkers. Some will worry about whether their men will return intact; some will simply look at the numbers of the dead, sigh, and say that they must try harder the next day, and the day after that.

One in particular will go back out into the trenches as soon as the remaining soldiers return, bleeding and covered in mud and aching all over. He will run through the trenches, pushing worn out soldiers to the side in his search for one in particular.

“Ianto!” He will call, “Private Jones! Private Ianto Jones?”

It will be another four hours before the dead are collected, and the night will be spent checking the names on the uniforms, and the dog tags when the names were ripped or blown off or cut through. By six o’clock in the morning a list of the dead will have landed on the Captain’s desk, and he will look through it with a heavy heart, wishing that he could have stopped it, or at least been there with them. With _him_.

As he turns through the pages upon pages, dread will fill his heart, slowly turning through the surnames until he gets to the letter J, columns full of Joneses, and his heartbeat will get faster and faster until –

Until his heart will stop in his chest.

_Jones, Ianto._

And he will sit, and he will cry, until seven o’clock comes around again and he will talk to his troops and send them up over the trenches. Time will keep on ticking. Soldiers will keep on fighting.

But Captain Jack Harkness will keep on loving, and keep on hurting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment, it really helps me out :)
> 
> To see my other TorchwoodFest entries, check out my tumblr: singing-fangirl


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